Dreams of flying

In my dreams I take flight. The air is cold, biting. My body hovers in mid-air and always, always there is the fear I would fall. The wind rushes around me and seeps through my toes.

In a single motion I sweep into the air, my body weightless. It is a terrifying sort of freedom, flying. The city is a map of lights below, a web of twinkling gossamer, each pinprick a lonely beacon.

I drift higher. The air nips harder at my face and my breath departs as mist. Always, I wonder when I will fall.


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